Desperate times call for desperate measures
by rupzydaisy
Summary: Sherlock needed access to the corpse. Unfortunately for him he was banned from the police station, the morgue and any crime scenes that Baker Street Station were investigating. So Sherlock Holmes had decided to use less conventional means. Mycroft thinks it's a pity his brother has to resort to such measures in such a state.


_Hello, so this is another Sherlock one shot. Before the series, probably around a year or so before? Maybe less? I'm not sure myself. Read and review please _

_-rupzydaisy _

* * *

Desperate Times Call For Desperate Measures

Sherlock needed access to the corpse of a certain Mr Jefferies who had been found dead two days ago in the alley way behind his house. Unfortunately for the consulting detective, he was banned from the police station, the morgue and any crime scenes that Baker Street Station were investigating. This was due to the fact that certain illegal substances were found in the consulting detective's flat after a drugs raid - which Detective Inspector Lestrade was tipped off beforehand by an anonymous source regarding said illegal substances. So Sherlock Holmes had decided to gain access to the morgue in a less conventional way.

Two days later he acquired the means in the form of venom from a rare snake from the depths of the Peruvian rainforests. In small doses the venom lowers the victim's heart rate dramatically. In turn the victim would seem deathly pale and would appear to not be breathing at all. So when his landlord found Sherlock collapsed on the sofa he called an ambulance. The paramedics pronounced him dead and whisked him off to the hospital morgue while Detective Inspector Lestrade followed shortly after collecting a statement from the stunned landlord.

* * *

Five hours later, a morgue attendant was distracted from his work by a faint rattling sound which seemed to be coming from inside one of the compartments. Over the next five minutes it turned to banging and when his colleague, Molly Hooper, walked into the room she was surprised to see him standing in front of the compartment staring at it with wide eyes and mouth trying to form the correct shape to scream.

"What are you doing?" She asked, turning around to stare at the compartment too.

The morgue attendant pointed at the compartment with a shaky finger, "He's banging. It's that psychopath, Sherlock Holmes. He's dead. And he's banging," he explained with a nervous voice.

Molly looked back at the compartment, and the noise became a little louder. "I'm going to open it." She decided and stepped forwards with the key.

Her colleague pulled her back, "What do you think you're doing. It's how all the horror films start. He's a psychopath." His voice climbed higher in pitch as he tugged her sleeve back. She frowned, shurgged his hand off hers and slowly slotted the key into the lock and turned it. Molly then opened the door quickly before jumping back.

She could see a mass of messy curly black hair moving, her colleague sounded like he had stopped breathing, she wondered if perhaps he had even fainted. "Sherlock? Are you..." Molly asked, and then paused because she didn't know what to say. _Alive?_

"Wheel me out." Sherlock demanded weakly. Molly complied while her colleague stepped back several paces, shaking like a leaf in the winds of a very strong gale.

He kept shaking his head, "The dead are supposed to stay dead," he muttered to himself, shaking his head.

"But, but, but, but...you were dead?" Molly asked bewildered. A very weak Sherlock flicked his legs out off the gurney and stood up, wobbling slightly. He ignored the flabbergasted woman who continued to stutter out sentences of disbelief and the other morgue attendant who announced that he was going to find someone to sort 'this craziness out'.

Sherlock removed the keys from the lock of his compartment and counted two compartments to the left and one up. He fumbled for the right key before slotting it into the lock and he pulled out the body of Mr Jefferies. He pulled out his little square magnifying glass from his pocket and began to examine the cadaver he went to all the trouble of sneaking in for.

Soon after, Detective Inspector Lestrade rushed into the room, Sergeant Sally Donovan after him. They stared at the supposedly dead man who was leaning over the corpse checking the dead man's neck.

"Sherlock, what? You were banned Sherlock!" Lestrade spluttered.

"I was right. Mr Jefferies was murdered. Check his neck. And the diary of his employer. There will be a phone number in it, written three days ago." Sherlock spun round to face the police officers.

Sally stared at him before speaking, "You're mental Freak, you're completely and utterly bonkers," she stated bluntly.

"How are things going with Anderson? Must be pretty well if he's gifting you his wife's old jewellery. I wonder if she'll notice?" Sherlock jibed before returning his attention to the corpse. "Mr Jefferies was murdered, his employer. I'm not repeating this again," he stated bluntly before moving around the gurney and walking towards the door.

"Sherlock! You have no authorisation to do this. You were banned, do you not remember? You can't just fake your own death to get access to a corpse!" Lestrade told him. Sherlock merely turned around.

"But I was right," he replied, and a smirk of triumph twitched at the corner of his mouth. "And you'll have arrested the murderer by tomorrow. Case closed." The consulting detective walked out of the door, it slammed shut on its hinges.

* * *

Sherlock walked mostly in a straight line to the pavement and put out his hand to flag down a passing cab. He opened the door of the taxi and put one foot inside, only sigh heavily and turn around to look for another taxi.

"In." Mycroft ordered and Sherlock sat down opposite his brother, scowling darkly at him.

"I don't care for whatever you say Mycroft, surely you realise that by now." Sherlock stated while glowering out of the window as the taxi driver joined up with the rush hour traffic.

"Nevertheless I shall still say it." Mycroft replied, bemused by his brother's antics. Sherlock turned his head to glare at his brother. "That wasn't a very clever thing to do Sherlock," he continued while staring at his brother. "I see you were a little heavy handed with the snake venom." He added with a small smile, albeit a little forced. Times like these were difficult, mainly because Sherlock acted that way.

"What do you care?" Sherlock spat back, breaking their staring contest by turning back to look out of the window. He scoffed, "The police were very successful with their search, they found it all." He turned back to scowl at Mycroft once more.

"Come now Sherlock, it isn't a healthy habit at all. Quite the opposite in fact. What would mummy say if she found out?"

"Emotional blackmail, dear brother? Have you forgotten who you're talking to?" Sherlock replied smoothly.

"Ah yes, the self proclaimed highly functioning sociopath." Mycroft nodded his head as though he was considering a new thought.

"Cut to the chase. Why are you sitting here and not pulling on the strings of the government or playing countries off each other." Sherlock said bluntly, apparently both bored and annoyed by his brother's appearance.

"Sherlock, you know I occupy a minor position in the British government." Mycroft recited his job description before sighing. "I, and Detective Inspector Lestrade have come to an agreement. You stop this destructive habit of yours and Baker Street Station shall reinstate your position as a freelance detective."

Sherlock flicked his gaze back to his brother, intently studying Mycroft's face. After a short silence he curtly replied, "Not a freelance detective, consulting detective." There was a little pause before he spoke again, "Would have thought you would remember that, must have too many CIA protocols jamming up your hard drive," he jibed and Mycroft just rolled his eyes.

The taxi turned onto the street where Sherlock was staying and began to slow. Sherlock didn't even wait until the driver had put the handbrake on to open the door and step out onto the pavement.

"Sherlock." Mycroft called softly as he stepped out of the door. Sherlock turned around slowly with a look of unconcealed annoyance on his face.

"What?"

"I do worry about you, take care brother."

Sherlock pulled a face and continued to scowl back, "Somehow I'll never believe that."

Mycroft watched as Sherlock opened the door to the flat and walked in without turning back or a second glance at the man standing behind with his black umbrella in his hand. If he did he would have seen the man sighing heavily before paying for the taxi and then watch as it drove off. Then as another, more sleeker, glossy black painted car pull up onto the side of the road, Mycroft would have opened the door and slid into the back seat. As the car drove off, Sherlock wouldn't have seen his brother look up to the second floor window on the left with the ratty blue curtains with a worried and slightly guilty expression.

And if Mycroft could look into the flat from the window he would have seen Sherlock deposit his coat and scarf onto the floor. Then he would have seen Sherlock kneeling down and lifting the black leather sofa up with one hand and plucking out a small plastic bag which was taped to the bottom of it. If he had been snooping through the second floor window throughout the night, he would have seen Sherlock place the bag onto the coffee table, which also held the remains of that morning's tea and the equipment used to mix up the correct dosage of venom.

Mycroft didn't see through the second floor window that Sherlock stared at the little plastic bag throughout the night. And in the early hours of the morning, continued to watch with sleepy eyes as Sherlock blinked twice quickly before standing up in one fluid movement, and stretched to dump the plastic bag in the metal bin in the kitchen. Mycroft wouldn't have seen his brother afterwards, sprawled across the sofa with his violin and bow in his hands, a sombre tune being repeated over and over again.

Mycroft didn't need to have watched Sherlock throughout the night, he already knew once he had looked away from the second floor window as his government car pulled away from the kerb. Which was why he instructed Anthea, "Tell Detective Inspector Lestrade that Sherlock can be called upon for assistance in four weeks."


End file.
